


The Life to Come

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rugby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5929291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets up with his old rugby mates and is coerced into admitting the truth about his life with Sherlock. Just fluff, no smut but I just felt like it...<br/>This is an updated version of the "The Life to Come" (which has been up since July 2015) - now beta'd (yeah!).<br/>The amazingly versatile <b>Lockedinjohnlock</b> kindly offered to beta for me, and I took her up on it and gave her quite a handful as a test of patience (and to find out if we'd rub along nicely) but she endured it with grace and her continuous work and kicking my ass improved this story so much that I feel obliged to share it with you all. We hope you enjoy it!<br/><b>Lockedinjohnlock</b> also reads and produces marvellous Sherlock podfics - with a lovely English accent. Her voice and performance genuinely brings the stories to life. Check out all her work on AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/works), it's truly worth it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life to Come

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The life to come](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305540) by [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder). 



“Ah, John, it's so good to see you, mate! Lads, look who turned up! I told you he would pop in!” Jimmy Fitzpatrick – nearly 6 ft 5, broad-shouldered, ginger – is grinning from ear to ear; face slightly flushed with equal parts excitement and intoxication. He's spotted John while carrying the next round from the bar to where a group of rugby players is perched in a corner of the modern gastropub.

“John Watson, you nasty old bugger,” Paul 'Clement' Attlee shouts over the all-enveloping noise composed of chatter, mainstream music and laughter, rising from the table and opening his arms to embrace his old teammate. He sits at the far end, so when he gets up, the rest of the men automatically turn as well to welcome the new guest. They are six all together: besides Jimmy and Paul, there are Marc, Toby, Sean and Julian. They had all played together for Blackheath Rugby Club what seems now – at least to John – a lifetime ago.

“Hey guys,” John waves a casual hello but is forcefully pulled into an embrace by Paul, wincing a little as the shovel-like hands of the former forward batter his back affectionately. John registers that he is about an hour late and the men are probably already well into their third round.

After Paul, the other players welcome John with loud cheers and shouted obscenities.

“Lousy bastard!”

“Oi, you twat!”

“Look at you, Bonsai!”

“You got fat and lazy, Watson!”

“Oh, I really missed this,” John sighs, trying to sound grumpy but barely managing to hide a fond smile, feeling touched by the easy familiarity of his old teammates. He has not seen them since before he went to Afghanistan and is pleasantly surprised by how cordially his turning up at their annual reunion is received.

Everybody shuffles up to accommodate the newcomer and as a pint appears out of nowhere before him, John starts to relax a bit and actually feels quite comfortable.

They all clink glasses and then someone asks: “So, John, long time, no see. What have you been up to lately?”

“Well, I invaded Afghanistan, got shot and was sent back home.” There's a short silence, then Marc whispers under his breath: “A remarkable achievement, hitting such a small target...”

Everybody roars with laughter, including John.

“Yeah, they really have quite talented snipers over there. CIA trained, or so I was told,” he admits, which is answered with more frantic snickering. 

“Boys, behave!” Paul feels obliged to intervene. “Our John is a hero, please, show him some respect!” He sounds genuinely indignant.

The men try hard to quieten themselves but to no avail, as Toby shouts: “Aye, for God and Queen and country!” while Sean and Julian simultaneously start to intone _“Land of Hope and Glory”_. Some of the other guests turn their heads but the men don't bother.

“As a friend of mine always says, don't make people into heroes,” John mumbles a little self-consciously, staring down as if searching for something at the bottom of his glass.

Suddenly they all fall silent. Someone coughs, slightly uneasy.

“But now you are back home, John. What are you up to these days, you old philanderer?” Jimmy asks, winking conspiratorially.

“I bet he has at least two strings to his bow,” Paul presumes.

What a fitting metaphor, John thinks to himself. Sherlock would appreciate it.

“Oh, you highly overestimate my sex appeal” John tries to divert the direction the discussion is taking. “Just look at me, I’m an invalided middle-aged army doctor who’s got a bit podgy round the middle!”

“Fair enough but last thing I heard, you were running around with that queer detective bloke,” Julian throws in, sounding innocent but curious. “I mean, all this kerfuffle, catching thugs, being in the papers; you are quite a celebrity these days, man! Must pull birds by the dozen.” 

“If you only knew...confirmed bachelor John Watson!” John exhales with frustration, recognising a second too late that he has actually said that aloud.

Six faces turn to him in anticipation.

“Well?” Paul raises an inquiring eyebrow.

“Oh, come on, boys. You don't really expect me to spill the beans, do you?” John can barely hide his despair.

But his former teammates just keep staring at him expectantly.

Ok, in for a penny, in for a pound. John huffs, looks down at the scratched table, then, up again, meeting the inquiring gazes of his old mates.

\----------

In retrospect, it shouldn't have come as a surprise. Not at all. If John were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he had it coming for quite some time – no pun intended.

John didn't give a toss if someone was straight or gay or what have you, not only because of his sister but, well, John just wasn't petty or biased. Each to his own; who was he to judge? Finally, he had come to a point in his life where - as his heterosexual love life deteriorated until it nearly ceased to exist - he'd started to ponder the convenient and obvious alternative right in front of him.

As a doctor and a soldier, he had met stranger men than Sherlock, but never anyone as brilliant.

John was confident enough to acknowledge other people's talent, even when they outshone his own, so he did not suffer from feeling inferior in the face of someone as gifted as his new flatmate obviously was. If others thought of Sherlock as mad, mercurial and insufferable, John thought of him as fascinating, amazing and diverting. 

It had taken John some time to acknowledge it, but he enjoyed watching Sherlock. There had been moments (on cases, running through the streets of London, at crime scenes; but also at home in their flat, Sherlock staring entranced down his microscope or typing frantically on his laptop) when John had looked at him and his breath had caught in his throat. 

And then there had been times when simply looking didn't seem enough.

John had tried to brush off these impulses, blaming them on his lack of sexual encounters (with whomever; seriously, he'd reached a state of enforced celibacy where he'd mount a letterbox if it offered), but deep down, he knew that his attraction to Sherlock was more than friendship; that he longed for a physical response. And weren't there more and more frequent little touches, fingers stroking absent-mindedly, shoulders bumping in passing, thighs pressed together on the sofa?

Sometimes it seemed that they were meant for each other. John Watson, RAMC, wasn't normally given to flights of romantic fancy, but more than once he'd caught himself imagining what if...

Of course, there were still other times that sobered John's yearning heart: Sherlock covered in blood or other bodily fluids, ransacking the flat while searching for cigarettes (or something stronger), lounging on the sofa for days on end without changing out of his pyjama bottoms; sometimes all of this in quick succession, so one wouldn't dare to imagine the state of his attire or their furniture.

At times like these the genius was but an annoying, tedious nag, who seemed to profoundly enjoy harassing John on his less and less frequent dates. More to the point, Sherlock gave the impression of actually relishing affronting whichever girlfriend John was reckless enough to bring back to their flat by uttering his trenchant but unfortunately accurate observations regarding their best kept secrets (without being asked to do so, naturally.) 

For example, when introduced to a shy but deliciously busty blonde, Sherlock couldn't refrain from deducing: “But, John, it is obvious that she is padding her bra and wears shapewear to conceal an abdominal apron and severe atony of the thighs and buttocks. She lost five stones over the last six months and is waiting for cosmetic surgery. That's why she plays hard to get.”

A nervous and skinny red-head was dealt with by revealing: “Honestly, John, I feel it's my duty to enlighten you about her cleaning habits. Scrubbing your bathroom eight times a day with bleach has to be considered OCD. Didn't you look at her hands? She might get an anxiety attack if she ever sets foot in our loo.” And to the lady in question, “I’m sorry but it's to everyone's benefit if John calls you a cab now.”

It eventually reached the point when John experienced Sherlock simply as merciful when making short work of his dates: “Married, compulsive cheat, suffering from vaginal mycosis – and vegan!”

It was after one of those encounters that it happened. It wasn't a life-shattering experience, not at all. In fact, it felt like the inevitable consequence of the developments of the last few months.

Sherlock had come home from Barts, carrying a suspicious looking parcel. At least, it was suspicious to John, who feared he knew what was in it but Ursula (the latest conquest) had blithely as well as heedlessly expressed her wish to "get to know your flatmate a bit better, ‘cos he can’t be the maniac you describe him to be!" She felt obliged to ask, not listening as John explained that she _really_ wouldn't want to know, even chiding him for misogynistic patronizing. At this, John had inwardly braced himself for the worst. Of course, when she came face to face with the severed head in a bucket being currently macerated by fat white maggots (the facial tissue already partly removed), she first made for the toilet and then for the door, never to be seen again

 

Sherlock had just shaken his head in incomprehension. She was a nurse, after all and should have had a stronger stomach. John, after the first disappointment at being ditched again had faded, had joined him; finally realising that it was utterly futile to attempt dating women with Sherlock around.

So he had opened of bottle of single malt, committedly knocked back some of the amber liquid to gather Dutch courage and then propositioned quite bluntly: “You know what, Sherlock? We should have a go at it,” stepping into Sherlock's personal space, distracting the detective from his new but sadly dead friend long enough to pull him into a long deep kiss. Initially, it was too much tongue and bumping noses, as Sherlock seemed puzzled at first but didn't shrink back. In fact, after he had overcome his surprise, he responded quite enthusiastically. Soon, the head was forgotten (leading to the not so small problem of flesh fly infestation of their kitchen until it was aptly dealt with by Sherlock extensively spraying the flat with Kybosh Insect Killer while bleakly quoting Celan's Death Fugue – in German, of course). The two men withdrew to Sherlock's bedroom, where things got very heady very quickly.

It all seemed so utterly easy; soft pale skin, strong muscles, wet lips. It was only when Sherlock bent John over and pushed into him determinedly that John allowed himself the fleeting thought that he had never been on the receiving end of this kind of ministration but after Sherlock hit his prostate, he threw these thoughts to the wind and just went for it, clinging on for dear life.

After this, there was no turning back. John had slightly panicked when he'd woken the next morning in Sherlock's bed but after a dedicated blow job, there really was nothing to complain about. They already lived together; they knew the worst about each other; they were aware of each other’s faults; they were even way past quarrelling about who'd do the shopping or laundry or cleaning (John) and who paid their bills (Sherlock). Everything had finally tumbled into place.

So, this was how his life had become and wasn't that just fucking brilliant?

\-----------

John pulls himself a little more upright and says: “I have actually met the love of my life. It's all quite fresh and new to me, so I would rather appreciate it if you could stop pestering me.” 

“Of course,” Jimmy says. “What's her name?”

“Age?”

“Size?”

“She's quite a looker, I bet?”

“Open-minded, in a, you know... permissive sense?” Jimmy nudges John conspiratorially with his elbow.

"Jesus, guys!" John exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief. "Does every one of you keep his brains between his legs?"

They all gaze at each other rather sheepishly, unsure how to answer this surely rhetorical question.

“Oh my God! Ok, have your cake and eat it: 35. 6 ft. 3. Slender, black haired, quite exotic features, a bit alien-looking, to be honest. And, yes, he is very adventurous in bed. Shags me three ways to Sunday, to be honest.”

Six jaws drop simultaneously. Twelve eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

John stares back, unblinking. It's suddenly very quiet in their corner.

“Problem?” he finally asks, a bit annoyed, attempting a crooked smile.

They come out of their state of collective shock all at once, spluttering in unison:

“Well...”

“That's...”

“Jesus, mate...”

“I thought...”

“I didn't know...”

“But, why...?”

John actually feels totally at a loss. He has absolutely no idea how to explain to these men what has happened between him and Sherlock Holmes. So he backs down, metaphorically tucking his tail between his legs while preparing a strategic exit.

“I'm sorry. But you asked.” John presses his lips together, looks down and then faces the group again.

“I think I’d better go.” He starts to get up, suddenly desperately wanting to flee the whole awkward situation, leaving this relict of his past behind as well, never having to look back.

His former teammates share a look and then Jimmy, who is sitting next to John, puts his big hand on John's arm, stopping him mid-motion.

“Care to elaborate?”

Very slowly, John sits down again.

“You really want to know?” he asks, bewildered and slightly incredulous.

“Sure,” Toby sounds intrigued. “It's not every day that your mate turns into a nancy.”

The rest of them sigh disapprovingly.

“What?” Toby exclaims, sounding offended. “At least I'm honest enough to say what we're all thinking! I'm making an effort here.”

“Bit not good, though,” Paul points out. “Perhaps you better shut it?”

“I think the correct term is poof,” John volunteers drily.

Again, shocked silence but then the men burst into laughter, patting John on the back.

“Well, sissy, the next round is definitely yours!” Sean announces, wiping his eyes. “And don't you dare get us something sweet and sticky! Real ale for real men!” 

After John gets the drinks and sits back down, all eyes are again on him.

“So, how come you changed sides?” Julian inquires, sounding honestly interested.

John thinks about his answer for a minute, then replies: “I'm really not sure I did. Well, obviously, I'm fucking a bloke but that's not the point. He could be...I don't know...a reptilian, or a mermaid, for all I care, it wouldn't make a difference. It's just him, you know? Well, probably not...” Listening to his own words, John cringes inwardly at his inadequacy in articulating his feelings for Sherlock. The detective would be embarrassed by John's stammering and rightly so.

“And how does it feel, you know, taking it up the arse?” Marc whispers, sounding equally repelled and curious.

“Why don't you find out for yourself?” John retorts, actually a bit startled by the rather intimate question.

“Are you offering?”

“Fuck off!” John retorts, feeling caught off guard.

“Girls, calm down!” Paul demands.

John suddenly feels a lump in his throat. “You are the first people I'm telling about this, you know...”

“Yeah, cheers mate,” Sean interrupts what threatens to evolve into a tearful sentimental confession, “but can we please talk about what happened at Twickenham now?”

And to John's great relief, the conversation goes back to rugby.

\----------

Two hours and four pints later, John's phone chimes.

_Where are you?_ \- SH

I told you, I was meeting some mates at the pub. - JW

_Tedious._ \- SH

_Dull._ \- SH

_Boring._ \- SH

_Come home._ \- SH

Leave it, Sherlock. I'm actually having some good clean fun. - JW

_I can offer something intriguingly contrary back at Baker Street._ \- SH

I'm sure you can. - JW

“Who are you texting, Watson?” 

“Your better half, I bet.”

“Tell him to come over, so we can have a good and proper look at him.”

Why don't you join me? - JW

_Don't be ridiculous, John. Consuming large amounts of fermented hops and barley with men the size of wardrobes who think it's sport to get their noses broken and teeth smashed in while chasing an elliptical prolate spheroid isn't really my area._ – SH 

Come on, a night out with your boyfriend. - JW

_You are drunk._ \- SH

Tipsy. - JW

_Come. Home. Now._ \- SH

Are you going to take advantage of me? - JW

_Is that really you texting?_ \- SH

Can't you tell? - JW

_Come home. I want you to suck me off._ \- SH

Patience. - JW

_You are a pain in the arse._ -SH

I take that as a compliment. - JW

“If you don't put down your phone right now I swear I will stuff it up your tight fey arsehole!” Jimmy announces, trying to wriggle the phone out of John's hand.

Sorry, have to go now. - JW

“So, is he coming? Do we meet him?” Sean's speech slurs and his head wobbles as he tries to blink John into focus, revealing how pissed he is.

“I'm afraid not.” John actually feels a bit disappointed. “But, honestly, it might be for the best. He can be a bit ... difficult.”

“I'm sure you know how to handle that,” Julian chuckles.

John just smiles.

\--------

“And then she tied me to the kitchen chair...,” Marc is in the middle of a rather saucy story about his ex-girlfriend when suddenly all faces turn towards the entrance. The table falls silent.

John's the last to catch on and something twists deep down in his stomach as he sees Sherlock scanning the bar and then, after locating him, striding over to their corner.  


John takes in the sight: Sherlock wearing his Belstaff, collar turned up, showing off his sharp cheekbones. The dark cloth supplies a stark contrast to his pale skin, mirrored by black curls falling over his forehead.

As he reaches the table he doesn't deign to look at anybody but John.

“Ready?” he asks in his deep velvet baritone voice.

Before John can answer, Jimmy gets up and offers his hand.

“Hi! You must be John's boyfriend.”

Sherlock inspects the outstretched hand with a kind of baffled awe but doesn't condescend to actually take it.

John has been momentarily frozen, trying to come to terms with this actually happening: Sherlock, meeting his friends at a pub! Well, perhaps stranger things have happened, but on a scale from 1 (actually boringly trivial) to 10 (absolutely-totally-unheard-of-second-coming-like occurrences experienced as frequently as Halley's Comet) this is an 11. 

Nevertheless, as the world continues to turn, John thinks he might as well start breathing again.

“Yes, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is ... everyone,” he finishes lamely.

Sherlock simply arches an eyebrow, glancing at the simperingly grinning group of men.

“Evening,” he greets dismissively. Directed at John, he continues: “Are you finished with your shenanigans here? I'd rather you come with me now.”

“We should get you a drink first,” Marc offers.

Sherlock gives him an evaluating look and opens his mouth to say exactly what is on his mind but John cuts him short: “Thank you but I'm sorry, we have to leave. Summoned by Scotland Yard. It's urgent. It was really nice to meet you lot again. See you!” And with that, John gets up, grabs Sherlock's arm and drags him out of the pub. 

When the door closes behind them, John inhales deeply, and his face contorts in a silly but irrepressible smile as he pulls Sherlock close and snogs him thoroughly on the pavement.

“You actually came. I can't believe it!” John exclaims giddily.

“As you refused to come home... You know the saying about the mountain and the prophet?”

“Well, whatever, let's go home. I desperately need to take you to bed, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
